The Gloomcatcher

01: Beneath The Castle

N E R I A T H

City of Ozloria, Filhayal, Meinoris.

    It was always dark.

    The sconces on the old stone walls had grim torches thick with veils of cobwebs arrayed but they were never flamed. Remnants of dead roots clung onto the patched walls and sordid vermins crawled on the floor along the nasty, murky pits of human excrete—unhealthy and pestilent droppings. The foul smell, overpowering fetid and strongly ammoniac suffocated the humid and stale air.

    The manacles rattled, iron slamming on iron and the man on the other end grunted, boisterously tugging the weighty, rusty metal with all his capacity and strength. Five days after being thrown here, he was still fixated on the prospect of escaping.

    "Save your strength, this place has an inconsistent food supply," Neriath responded to his pity attempts. They hadn't brought any dried crumbs of Trepir breads for the past two days and she didn't know when would they bring it again.

    "I want out of here," grunted a basso voice in Res-Dos—his accent, metrical.

    In the obscured darkness with faint light seeping through nets on the top edges that allowed only air, his features were not discernible but by the heaviness in his voice and the constant endeavor to free himself, she surmised he was a strongly built, beefy man. She pitied him more for he had such high hopes in his strength and ability that failure brought him denial.

    I want out of here. That was what all of them said.

    She leaned back on the cold, dank wall, shifting uneasily to adjust her back. "What brought you here?"

    He didn't reply and cursed at her before returning to the clanging, clip-clopping, and low guttural sounds with relentless tensile. He seemed more taciturn than herself. She was like him at the beginning—sans all the violent struggles—however being in a dark place for so long, imprisoned, she might have wanted a little communication.

    In the silence, sounds of footfalls neared. They rarely had any visitors and when they did, it was either to drag a pleading man out for execution or to shackle someone in for their offense. This time, Neriath wondered if it was the end of her life. She didn't believe in God but if there was really a heaven or hell out there, although late, she could maybe repent for her sins. The heavy wooden doors creaked clamorously as it was being pushed open and then many pattering footsteps followed like rain. Albeit not much could be visible in the darkness, she focused on the sounds, clack clack clack drag clack.

    "Hold him tight!" someone commanded.

    The man who was held, wriggled noisily, stomping his feet, and was dragged when refrained from moving forward.

    "Move the skunk to the walls!" bellowed a gravelly, grating voice.

    "Ow!" one of the men whooped in a howl. "The bastard punched me!" The other sniggered.

    "Quit fussing, Arigus. Peles, enchain him this instant!"

    The fettered man when rigged with chains after struggles, chuntered as his breaths came unevenly, "you will scream in agony when the king will peel the skin of your face for what you've done." There was something in his sneering, rasping voice that told her he was young.

    Why would a prisoner side with the King?

    "Alas," tsk-tsked the man, mocking, "the King will die soon, dear boy."

    Mutineer.

    Another jab. "Ow!" Yelped Peles. Momentarily, Arigus snickered.

    "Move along," he growled at his men, "some useless shits you both are, can't constraint a flower boy without getting beaten."